Art and Science
by The Treacle Tart
Summary: SLASH Ron and Harry prepare for a mission and must battle terrible fashion sense. HP-RW COMPLETE


**Title:** Art and Science  
**Rating:** R   
**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.  Really.  Nothing at all.

**Summary:** Ron and Harry prepare for a mission and must battle terrible fashion sense.  
**Warnings**: Cross-dressing.

Special thanks to lizabethy for her beta services and encouragement.  All remaining mistakes are my own.

**Art and Science**

 "Tell me again why I'm doing this?" he asked as he inspected his reflection in the mirror.

"Don't look at me." Ron did his best to keep the smile from his face. "You volunteered for this mission without looking into all the details. You said you could pick it up exactly where it was left off. You graciously volunteered me as your partner without asking if I wanted to be involved. Therefore, you get to be the girl."

Harry replied with a curt huff and a tug on the hem of his dress. 

Being the overachieving Auror he was, Harry had a habit of signing up for any mission that came about without a worry as to where he would end up.  As his partner, Ron has found himself chasing renegade Death Eaters in Istanbul, looking for rogue agents in Budapest, and infiltrating a ring of illegal potions pushers in Central America. 

And that was just last week.

As the overprotective best friend of said overachieving Auror, Ron accepted Harry's insatiable need to rid the world of evil, but was a wee bit tired of not being consulted about where Harry's psychosis would lead them. Harry had volunteered to take over this mission from Oliver Wood and Ron's sister Ginny who could not complete it, as they chose to elope instead. True to form, Harry jumped at the chance to go on yet another mission, and once again had failed to get the details. This particular mission required two agents to pose as a married couple -- a straight married couple -- at a resort that caters to honeymooners and fugitives.

Just off the coast of Italy on the beaches of Capri -- hidden from Muggles and wizards without a reservation -- stands the lavish marble pillars of 'Il Giardino Del Mar.' Somewhere in its vast, and secret, catacombs hid four convicts that had escaped Azkaban during the last days of Voldemort's occupation. These wizards had exceptionally nasty records and were in line for a private session with a pair of Dementors.

Being a wizard's hotel with a questionable cliental residing in a labyrinth of dungeons, they were very heavily warded.  A wizard wearing a glamour spell to alter his appearance would be detected almost immediately. A man dressing in woman's clothing wearing makeup or a wig, however, would just be considered …eccentric. As long as they were not infringing on the other patrons, the management was happy to look past the more unconventional client.

That meant some disguises were in order. That also meant someone had to be the girl.  

"Your hair is better for this," Harry said, trying to sound complimentary.

"Pardon?"

"Your hair…being red and all is better suited to this. Mine's a mess." Harry ran his fingers through his thick mane in a futile attempt to tame it. "No self-respecting woman would walk around with this mop on her head."

"You'll wear a hat," Ron offered while engrossed with the notes Oliver left. "A nice wide rim sun hat would be lovely," he added with a smirk.

Harry scowled and tugged at the hem of his dress once more. "You've got longer legs," he said hopefully.

Ron finally looked up. "So."

"So mine are too short. Long legs look better on woman."

"Harry, don't be ridiculous. I can't be the woman despite my long legs or desirable hair coloring. I'm six inches taller than you are, not to mention I've got about forty pounds on you. We'd make an absurd looking couple. Besides my shoulders are too broad and my appearance too masculine. You're more slender. Your features are more delicate. You'll make a lovely woman." He returned to his notes only to be interrupted again.

"Are you saying that I look like a girl?"

Ron sighed. "I'm saying you'll make a better woman than I would. We both have to make concessions here. It's not as if I won't have to be in disguise as well-"

"Dying your hair brown is not the same as pouring hot wax over your body and ripping the hair off," Harry nearly shouted. "I swear I'd invent a new Unforgivable if I ever found the sadist bastard who thought that up."

"Why didn't you just shave?" Ron asked.

"You could shave!?!" Harry felt a shout was warranted here.

"That's what Ginny does," Ron answered with a shrug.

"I'm going to kill Hermione. She said it was more practical. _Lasts longer_. I should know better than to take cosmetic tips from quite possibly the only woman in the world with hair worse than mine." 

"She could be right," Ron interrupted. "Ginny shaves her legs several times a week and her legs are not nearly as soft as Hermione's."

Harry shot Ron a look. "How do you know how soft Hermione's legs are?"

"See you make a wonderful nagging wife," he answered, burying his nose in Oliver's notes once again. "You already fit in the role perfectly. Next you'll ask me if your arse looks big in that dress."

"What? My arse looks big in this dress? " Harry squeaked in alarm, craning his head around his side to try to catch a glimpse of the posterior in question and chasing his tail like an over anxious terrier. 

Ron sighed again. "No -" 

"Why would you say that if my arse didn't look big in this dress?" Harry snapped.

"I was just making a comment."

Harry was getting put off by Ron's cavalier attitude towards parts of his anatomy. "That's a cold comment, mate. I'm not feeling particularly pretty at the moment and the last thing I need is you commenting on the huge unsightly lump that is my backside."

Ron ran his fingers through his hair, surprised huge clumps of it hadn't come out in the process. "Harry, you have a lovely arse. Flawless, really."

"It looks good?" Harry asked, looking for reassurance.

"Yes."

"In this dress?"

"Yes."

Harry was still not convinced. "Would you like to have an arse that looked like it?"

"Harry, there is nothing I would like more than to have your arse." 

Harry's head whipped around to find Ron deeply immersed in Oliver's notes. He didn't miss the blush that had found its way to the tips of Ron's ears now glowing red. Harry wondered if that comment was just a poor choice of words or - if that blush was any indication - a Freudian slip. 

He turned his attention back to his apparel. It was too short and too tight -- dark blue with a ribbed bodice and a preposterously high slit on the left side. Four inch, open-toed pumps with a long thin heel completed the ensemble. Quite daring for springtime. 

"Who picked this outfit anyway?" he asked.

"I did. What's wrong with it?"

"What's wrong with it?" Harry wasn't sure if he was comforted or disturbed by the revelation that his best friend would consciously choose this monstrosity. "I look like a street walker."

"Don't be absurd you couldn't possibly walk the streets in these shoes, your feet would kill you before you went ten yards." Ron ducked quickly as one of the aforementioned shoes sailed through the air, toward his head with staggering velocity. It hit the wall behind him with a sickening thud, its thin heel piercing the plaster. "Oi! What was that for?"

"Practice," Harry snarled. "I have a feeling before this conversation is over I will have an overwhelming urge to crack your head open and make sure your brain hasn't been removed."

"You're the one talking about walking the street in those shoes. You can hardly stand in them-"

"Ron. A street walker is a prostitute. A…a scarlet woman," he finished sounding eerily like a very put out Molly Weasley.

"Why would you want to look like that?"

"I don't want to look like that, but it's hard to avoid in this get up!" He was ready to implant his remaining shoe in Ron's thick skull. "This dress is too short, too low cut, and too tight. Why did you pick it?"

"I thought the color would bring out your eyes," Ron answered.

"Oh." Harry was not quite sure how to answer that so handled it in the manner to which he had grown accustomed to handling uncomfortable conversations -- he changed the topic. "Well, it's too short."

"Why? You've got great legs."

"We've discussed my legs already. They are too short."

"They are not. They are perfectly proportional to the rest of your body. Besides they are very shapely. Riding brooms all the time has done wonderful things to your thighs and calves. You can wear those nylon things. Hermione's legs always look nicer when she wears them."

"That's the second time you've mentioned Hermione's legs. Is there something you want to tell me?"

"What…she has nice legs. Besides, what's it to you if I notice her legs?"

"It's nothing to me." This conversation had turned a corner somewhere, but for the life of him Harry couldn't figure out where it was going or how they got there. "It's just that it would be nice to hear you talk about my appearance and not some other woman's. I'm supposed to be your wife." That didn't sound right. He resisted the urge to smack himself on the forehead. 

"Sorry…love." Ron fluttered his eyelashes as his voice dripped with honey. "Here, let me pull that chair out for you?" 

"Fine, be that way." Harry hobbled to where his shoe remained embedded in the wall and pulled it out.

"Be what way?" 

"This is important, Ron," Harry declared while putting his shoe back on. "This is a mission. There are people -- evil people -- we are supposed to capture. It has to work, but it's not going to work if I can't make myself look like a halfway decent woman. No one will believe the ruse and we will both be in danger."

Ron's shoulders dropped in defeat. "I'm sorry, Harry. Really. But you are worrying about nothing. You are very attractive and whether you're dressed as a man or a woman, that will show. You just need a little help with the more girly things."

"Help?"

"Yes, someone to come along and help transform you into my beautiful blushing bride."

"And who will the miracle worker be, pray tell?"

"You're looking at him." Ron placed his hands on his hips proudly.

"You!"

"I have some experience in the girly sciences."

"Do you now?" Harry prepared himself for what was sure to be one heck of a story.

"Ginny and I are the closest in age next to the twins," Ron began. "It was either do girly things with her or be a test subject and/or all-purpose victim for the twins. She and I had a deal: for every game of Quidditch, chess, or Exploding Snap there was a proportionate amount of fairy dolls, tea with the Pixie Sisters, or dress up."

"Dress up? You played dress up…rather than deal with your brothers?"

"You have met Fred and George, right?"

Right. "But dress up?"

Ron narrowed his eyes. "When I was six they had me drink a concoction that made all my hair fall out."

"It obviously grew back-"

"Purple. It grew back purple."

"You fixed it." 

"_All_ my hair fell out Harry, and it _all_ grew back purple. I had to sit in St. Mungos for three weeks while dozens of Medi-witches and wizards examined _every_ square inch of body trying to find a cure. The first 'cure' turned all my hair green. The second got the coloring right, but it was my skin that turned red…my hair stayed green. I looked like a strawberry covered in mold. The sixth covered me in polka dots while the twelfth gave me stripes. I think you can see why I might not have minded wearing Mum's hat and shoes on occasion while playing with Ginny. I never had to worry about my health, or my sanity, or my coloring…and I always matched. I'm rather good at accessorizing."

Harry threw his hands in the air. "Fine. Work your magic."

Ron pulled out Ginny's cosmetics bag and positioned himself in front of Harry and carefully removed his glasses. He grasped Harry's chin with his thumb and forefinger and turned it left and right in the lamp light "First things first, eyebrows are plural. You need two." 

"I. Have. Two."

"Theoretically you do, yes, but you have a few subversive hairs looking to mutiny and they are congregating in neutral territory. A few tugs with these," Ron brandished shiny silver tweezers, "and we can successfully squelch the rebellion."

"Tugs? What do mean- OUCH!!! Bloody hell, what are you doing!?"

"Squelching a rebellion. War is a bastard, now hold still." 

"Come near me again with those things and I swear I'll find out what potion Fred and George used on you when you were six."

Ron paused and looked at Harry through narrowed eyes. With a smirk he stated, "This is important, Harry. This is a mission. There are people--evil people--we are supposed to capture. It has to work, but it's not going to work if I can't make you look like a halfway decent woman. No one will believe the ruse and we will both be in danger."

Harry sat back down, but not without some grumbling and a promise to himself to contact the twins at the first opportunity. The next fifteen minutes alternated between yelps of pain and highly creative swearing. 

When he was done Ron placed a small dollop of moisturizer on his fingers and gently rubbed the red skin between Harry's newly liberated eyebrows. Harry closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, sighing softly at the soothing contact on his sore skin. They sat in silence for a while, Harry lost in the relaxing sensations and Ron's smile growing with every contented sigh. When the lotion had been completely worked into the skin Ron pulled away and stared a moment at Harry, whose eyes were still closed. As a pair of green eyes slowly fluttered open, Ron turned away and began to scour the case of cosmetics.

"I almost fell asleep," Harry remarked, stifling a yawn. "That was nice." 

"See, the girly arts aren't all bad," Ron said with a catch in his voice.

"I thought it was girly sciences you were prophetic in."

"We have crossed the threshold from science into art. Behold." He held up a small bottle filled with a peach-tan colored liquid."

"What's that?"

"Foundation."

"What does it do?"

"Evens out your skin tone."

"What's wrong with my skin?"

"For the love of - there is nothing wrong with your skin. We need to cover your scar and we can't use magic. This little bottle will do the trick."

Ron poured a bit on to a small sponge and began to rub it on Harry's skin. "That feels odd," he said as he squirmed in his seat.

"It will feel better when it dries."

"I take it you've used this stuff before."

Ron gave a half smile. "It covered my freckles."

"Why would you want to cover your freckles? I like your freckles."

Ron didn't answer but continued to work the cream into Harry's skin.

"Here," he finally stated, "Look at this." He held up a mirror and watched with amusement as Harry's eyes went wide. 

"You can't even see it," he said with awe.

"Stuff works well," Ron agreed.

Harry was mesmerized by the sight of a smooth, scar-free forehead. "That's all I needed? A bit of colored cream and I could have hidden this from the world?" he said in a hoarse, rasping voice.

"Why would you want to hide?"

"Why did you cover your freckles?"

They looked at each other for a moment and each gave the other a small nod of understanding. Harry never questioned Ron's need to stand apart from his family. Ron never questioned Harry's need to hide from his fame. It was unstated, but accepted.

Harry picked up a mirror again and continued to examine his made up face. "I look odd. My face is all one color -- that can't be right." 

Ron smiled. "That just the base, now we use this." He held up a green compact and opened it to reveal a dark pink powder and a brush. 

"What's that?"

"Rouge. It will add color to your skin."

"You just used that stuff to even out my complexion so it would all look the same; now you're adding color back in?"

"It takes a lot of work to achieve a natural glow - whatever means necessary and all that. I don't understand the philosophy, I only practice the art."

"Women do this all the time?"

"Everyday."

They both shivered. 

Ron rubbed the brush against the powder and gently stroked Harry's cheek. "That tickles," he said with a distinctly girlish giggle.

Ron smiled. "Ginny used to say that too."

Harry was beginning to enjoy this more than he would have liked to admit to anyone. There was something exciting about being someone else --someone with no past to contend with and no fame to live up to. He looked at the cosmetics bag and all the makeup it contained. Ginny helped several agents with their disguises so the bag was full of different colored powders and things.  To Harry it was like a rainbow and it was beautiful.  "What's that?" he asked pointing to a colored pencil that was sticking out of the bag. 

Ron looked over. "A kohl pencil," he answered. "It makes your eyes stand out."

"Are you going to use it on me?"

"I was thinking of just using mascara, actually. I don't want you looking like a tart."

Harry quirked his eyebrow. "Why not? It would complete the look you've started with the shoes and this dress. We should go all the way."

"Are you sure?"

"I've gone this far. How much dignity could I have left?"

Ron grabbed the pencil and began to outline Harry's eyes. "Stop blinking."

"How do you propose I do that?" 

"By keeping your eyes open."

"Ha. Ha. Aren't you the clever one? It's impossible, you git. It feels like you are going to stab my eyes or something."

"You need to relax or I will. Just look at the far wall and try to ignore me."

"You're sitting three inches away with a sharp pencil pointed at my eyes. How am I supposed to ignore that?"

"You're the one who wanted, this mate. I'm just trying to please my lovely spouse." 

After ten minutes of struggling he managed to line Harry's eyes with the kohl surprising well. Ron retreated back into the cosmetic case and pulled out a small clear box containing what appeared to be spiders of some sort.

"What are those?" Harry asked.

"False eyelashes."

"I have eyelashes."

"These are nicer."

"What's wrong with my eyelashes?"

"You really have issues, you know that. There's nothing wrong with your eyelashes, but they are not girly enough and after spending ten minutes fighting you to put on eye liner, I'd rather not attempt mascara."

After some more cursing, further giggling, and a renewed promise of death by hex, the eyelashes were applied. Ron surveyed his work and gave a small shake of his head. "You need lipstick."

"Why?"

"To balance the color."

"More coloring. I'm going to look like a clown."

"Do you honestly think I would do that to my wife?"

Harry had doubts but knew better than to voice them at this delicate stage of the operation. "How about this color?" He suggested a pretty color that seemed to stand out from the rest.

"That's too bright."

"How about this?"

"It doesn't go with your skin."

"How about-"

"Harry, just trust me okay. I will find the right color." He rifled through the bag. "Here."

"Red. I picked red and you said it was too bright."

"You picked Forever Scarlet. This is Red Monsoon."

"They're both red."

"Harry, trust me --I know red and there is a difference."

"Fine." Harry wondered when getting red hair made someone an expert on the spectrum.

Ron applied the lipstick and surveyed his progress -- deciding against eye shadow, once again choosing to avoid tarting his wife up – and handed Harry a mirror. "Here, what do you think?"

Harry's outlined eyes went wide, his newly plucked and trimmed eyebrows rose, and his Red Monsoon lips parted in surprise. "Bloody hell. I'm gorgeous. I like the kohl."

"It does work well doesn't it? We still have to do something about your hair."

"What's wrong-"

"Your lovely hair needs to look a bit more feminine," Ron interrupted quickly. "A scarf or a hat ought to do the trick. We'll leave it alone for now. "

"What about breasts?" Harry asked excitedly.

"What about them?"

"I don't know if you've noticed or not, but I don't have any." 

"We could get you those. How big do you think?"

"Should we get big ones? I think this dress calls for big ones. Not pointy though. Rounder I think."

"You've given this some thought, I see."

"You find out you're going to dress like a woman and the first thing you think about is the breasts. Now stop avoiding the issue, this is important --do you think I need the big ones?"

"Nah, a good handful ought to be enough."

"Just a handful," Harry sounded disappointed.

"I never cared for the big ones. Too intimidating. Besides, we need to keep you looking somewhat inconspicuous."

"Inconspicuous! In this dress! How did you ever pass Surveillance and Tracking? " 

"Big breasts will draw a lot of unwanted attention. Men stare a lot longer if there is something to stare at."

"I could see that, I suppose. When can I get them?"

"Later, we still need to get the basics down. We will devote more research to your breasts later on; try on a few different sizes and shapes and see what works."

"This conversation is getting weirder and weirder," Harry remarked, shaking his head slowly.

"You just figured that out."

Harry shrugged. "It's the shoes, mate. I'm a bit slower at this altitude. What's left?"

"Let's put the stockings on your lovely legs and you can try to walk around the room in your shoes."

"Do I need to wear the stockings now?"

"Might as well, we have them"

Harry's newly emancipated eyebrows went up again as he examined the nylons Ron tossed at him. "These are just the leg part, how do they stay up."

"With these." Ron held up black bands of some lacy material.

"Suspenders? Don't they have the ones that go all the way up over your stomach? Aunt Petunia wore those."

"I suppose - how do you know what type of stockings Aunt Petunia wore?"

"Who do you think was in charge of laundry?" he asked and pursed his lips. "Why do I have to wear suspenders? Did you pick these out too?"

"They seemed to go better with the dress."

"You really are trying to make me look like a street walker."

"Just put them on."

Harry looked at the stockings and then at Ron and, deciding some modesty was in order, hid behind a desk. "These feel odd," he said when he finally emerged after quite some time spent struggling. "I think I put them on wrong."

"Let me see." Ron reached his hand to the hem of Harry's dress.

Harry recoiled. "See what?"

"See how you put them on."

"No, they're fine."

"Now they're fine."

"Better than fine, lovely actually…smashing. Outstandingly…smashingly fine."

"What are you getting so worked up over? Let me see." Ron reached out again and Harry found himself up against the desk with a pair of surprisingly warm hands traveling up his thigh. As the edge of his dress lifted, he closed his eyes and prayed to suddenly become invisible. The room became very silent and some small part of his brain actually thought he was successful in willing himself into another plane of existence, when he heard Ron's breath hitch.

"Harry?" he asked in a husky voice.

"Yes," Harry answered slowly.

"You're wearing knickers…ladies knickers."

"Well, I couldn't very well wear my boxers, could I," Harry said defiantly. "The damn dress is too tight and it made my bottom look odd and rumpled. I needed something -- I couldn't very well go without."

"They're silk." Ron's voice grew huskier.

Harry shrugged and smiled sheepishly. "They felt better than the cotton ones and -- I don't know -- they're prettier. Ron, are you all right?"

"They look…they look nice." Ron's voice grew huskier yet and his eyes got very dark. He lifted his finger to the silk stretched over Harry's thigh and ran it along the edge of the pant.

Harry licked his lips, finding his mouth suddenly very dry. He had never seen that look in Ron's eyes before and he wasn't sure it was a good thing. On the other hand, it didn't look that bad. "Ron?" he asked his voice rasped and coarse. "Ron?"

"Hum?" Ron half replied, his eyes still honed on Harry's pale thigh.

"Did I put them on right?"

"They're perfect."

"Ron?" 

"Hum?"

"Is something wrong?"

Ron looked at Harry and into his black lined eyes and red rose lips. There was a blush on his cheeks that had nothing to do with the makeup that had been applied. Whether it was that particular hue upon Harry's cheeks, the look of lustful confusion on his face, or the silk pants still beneath Ron's fingertip has yet to be determined. The only thing either could remember for certain was that an undeterminable amount of time was spent with Ron's lips pressed harshly to Harry's, his hands traveling over the whole of Harry's body. Harry found himself hoisted on the desk, responding in the only manner his outfit would deem suitable.

By the time they parted both had Red Monsoon smudged across their faces, and the crisp lines around Harry's eyes were somewhat blurred but no less vivid. His hair was still a mess but he was fairly certain it was no worse than Ron's, which looked windswept -- tornado swept, actually. Harry was surprised to find one of Ron's hands sitting tenderly on his thigh and the other possessively on his waist, but was more stunned at the fact that his own legs were wrapped around Ron and it was a rather comfortable position.  Both were breathing very heavily, which Harry believed to be a good thing, as he didn't want to be the only one who passed out.

Both were also at a loss for words, and it was several very long seconds before anyone spoke. "Since fifth year," Ron stated as if those three words would make everything clear.

"What? What since fifth year?"

"You walked into the common room and told us you kissed that harpy, Cho Chang, and my first reaction was that I wanted to tear out her still beating heart and shove it down her throat -- which I knew was a completely inappropriate response to your news. Since that day I knew…I knew I had feelings for you."

"Seven years? You wanted…me for seven years?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Seven exceedingly long years."

  
Harry thought he knew the answer but asked the question anyway. "Why didn't you say anything?" 

Ron's face fell and a very stark clarity entered his eyes. "What was I supposed to say Harry? When was I supposed to say it? When Sirius died? While we were training at the Auror Academy? While you where battling for your life…for the world? I wasn't even sure you fancied men."

"I don't."

"Oh."

"But I fancy you."

"Oh."

Harry spoke as if he needed to explain this to himself as much as to Ron. "I've never felt anything like that before. Nothing in my life ever made me feel like that kiss did. Not winning the Quidditch cup, not leaving the Dursley's forever, not even killing Voldemort. Nothing. I take on these missions looking for something to bring that kind of inspiration and …excitement into my life. I had always thought it was working with you against everyone else. I guess it was just the 'you' part that mattered." He dropped his eyes. "I have to ask though. Why now?"

Ron lifted Harry's chin so their eyes met. "I don't know," he said faintly. "You look…you look amazing and I just thought if I was ever going to go for it, it should be when you looked like this. The memory of it alone could sustain me for the rest of my life."

"Really?"

"No," Ron answered softly. "But it would have been enough."

Harry looked in Ron's eyes, at the shade of blue he had yet to see anywhere else, and a felt familiar ache in his chest. 'Chemistry,' Harry thought suddenly. 'It was all about chemistry.' Something inside him had sparked that day on the train, when Ron asked to join him. Not having had friends -- or any type of personal relationship -- before, it was easy to mistake what he was feeling. He ignored the fact that though Hermione was just as important to him, he felt very differently about her. He loved them both, but loving someone and being in love with someone are very different. 

It wasn't until Harry found himself propped up on a desk, in a slinky blue dress, with a pair of spiked shoes dangling from his prone feet, that he realized how very different. He was always happier around Ron and miserable on the rare occasions they were not speaking to each other. Ron always understood him without everything needing to be spelled out or discussed. Ron just understood. They fit together, complimented each other, completed each other in the most natural way. Whether he was a man or woman didn't matter because he was Ron -- and he was his. It was basic chemistry. 

Harry loved Hermione, but the thought of kissing her felt incestuous whereas right now he could think of nothing other than Ron's lips and how they felt against his, about the roughness of Ron's cheeks brushing against this own, about the hard lines of Ron's chest and shoulders beneath his curious hands. He was about to do something about it when Ron's nervous voice spoke: "Harry? Is it enough for you?"

Harry's eyes went very dark. "Ron, right now I don't think I can ever get enough."

***

Ron wasn't sure where the chair came from but was eternally grateful it was there, blessing the person who put it there, the person who made it, and even the person who come up with the very idea of chairs in the first place. He found himself happily sitting on this wonderful piece of human ingenuity with Harry comfortably astride his lap, fiercely kissing him, and making delicious noises while grinding onto him. He slid his hands up Harry's thigh once more, entranced by the soft skin between the top of the stocking and the laced edge of the silk pants. A substantial amount of time was spent exploring every bare inch. Ron was always very thorough.

Harry had apparently decided that a wardrobe change was in order - for Ron - and had subsequently ripped his shirt open.  He was delighted to find that Ron had freckles everywhere and made a promise to himself  to get acquainted with each one. Ron's skin felt so soft beneath his fingers -- like velvet -- and Harry was spellbound. His hands slid across Ron's exposed chest, his fingernails ran down Ron's abdomen, his thumbs rubbed circles on Ron's rose-dusted nipples. Harry's dexterity was rewarded by a pair of strong hands cupping his arse and pushing his silk clad erection toward Ron's belly. The sensation alone was nearly enough to push him over the edge.

He began to rock against Ron, arching his back, exposing a long white neck which Ron promptly sank his teeth into. Harry grasped Ron's shoulders, pressing his fingernails into the taut muscles, his hitched breath coming out in soft moans and whimpers. Ron's hands were back at his thigh and sliding up towards his shaft, already straining against the soft fabric of the silk pant. A warm tongue slid over his earlobe and strong fingers where brushing against him, about to seize him when-

"Afternoon, boys. Already preparing for the mission, I see." Chief Inspector Borgine's glassy grey eyes peered over tops of his bifocals. He barged into the room and over to the desk, rifling through the notes left scattered about. "None more dedicated than you two. I've said it repeatedly - leave it to Potter and Weasley to do a job and do it right. No slacking for those two, I've said. They give 100 percent very time." He picked the container of Red Monsoon and eyed it appraisingly.

"I hate to disappoint you lads, seeing all the work you've already done, but this mission has been called off. Apparently, one of our convicts got a bit frisky with a chambermaid - fiery Italian temper, that one. I don't have all the specifics yet but it was quite a creative hex involving Graphorn eggs, a bidet, and a corkscrew. Had the poor bugger begging for the Dementors by the time she was done with him. Gave up his compatriots as well; amazing what a threat to a man's privates can do to his convictions." 

He gave one shrug before heading out. "Sorry about all this boys. I know how much you look forward to your work. Don't lose heart though; I'm sure you can think of ways to utilize your preparations. Hate to see all that hard work go to waste. Now why don't you take the rest of the day off, you both look terribly flustered." 

Harry and Ron just stared at the now closed door and then each other. Harry's shoulders had dropped when he realized there would be no mission, one he had been looking forward to more than any other…ever. 

"You know," Ron began, "he is right. It would be a shame to let all this hard work go to waste."

Harry smiled. "What are you thinking?"

"Feel like going on vacation?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dusk was beginning to fall and a gentle breeze carried the scents of the ocean all through the atrium. "Look Paola. They're at it again." Mateo gave his wife a wide grin as he jutted his chin towards an overly affectionate couple seated across the room.

"Who?" she asked looking over.

"That young couple we've been running into all week." 

"The tall man and the woman with the bad hair?" 

"Her hair's not all that bad."

Paola smiled. "You never look at her hair, you are too distracted by that dress she favors."

Mateo smiled back. "I like the dress, it brings out her eyes. Besides, I'm old now; hair holds little fascination for me. Those shoes on the other hand-"

"She wears too much makeup," Paola interrupted.

Mateo gave his wife a small smile. "Some women need more help, cara."

Paola shrugged. "I don't know why they even bother leave their room."

"They are in love," he replied with a warm smile. "I don't think they realize the rest of the world exists."

The tall man and the woman with bad hair got up walked out towards the terrace over looking the beach; hand in hand, fingers interlaced. He leaned over to her and whispered something in her ear, making her blush and laugh. She stood in front of him, his arms wrapped around her waist and his head bent down, resting on her shoulder. They didn't move until the sun sank out of sight and the stars twinkled brightly in the night's sky.

_Finis_


End file.
